


Selfless Love

by NimWallace



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Canon Compliant, Declarations Of Love, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, POV John Watson, Selfless Love, Unrequited Love, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-27 04:09:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18296555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: In which something has been bothering Holmes since Abbey Grange. Watson is surprised to learn what it is.





	Selfless Love

It was the year '97, and Sherlock Holmes had just solved the case of the “Abbey Grange” a tale which I documented some time ago.  
The reason this particular story has yet to be penned, and will likely never leave my note-book at least in my lifetime, will become evident soon.  
You see, since allowing Captain Croker and Mary Frasier to go free despite their concealment of a violent murder, he seemed to be somewhat withdrawn. He was not without his thoughtful moods, but as of late I would catch him staring away with an empty look in his deep set grey eyes, so different from that of profound thought I usually read upon them. I often found myself having to repeat his name several times to get his attention.  
“Holmes?”  
Snapping out of his trance, he looked up at me in surprise.  
“Yes, Watson?”  
“Is something the matter?”  
His lips quirked into a fleeting smile, and he looked away from me and out the window instead. For several more moments he was silent, the smoke from his pipe clouding around his face in a thick veil.  
“You know me well, my dear doctor,” he said, his arm falling to the chair, drumming his fingers against the armrest. “I don't suppose you could apply my methods and observe what has caused the stir in my mood?”  
Even in his blackest moods, he still thought only of reason.  
“Well,” I began, “I suppose, since you have had a good week these past few days, securing no problems in your routine, the disruption must lie in our most recent case.”  
Holmes smiled again, bitterly. He closed his eyes.  
“Why do you, my dear friend, think that case bothered me?”  
“Well, I thought it rather obvious; it must be bothering you that you took your own opinion above the law.”  
He frowned.  
“No, Watson, I daresay I hardly ever question my own decisions, since they are usually correct. No, there was something else that bothered me.”  
“What, then?”  
Holmes leaped up impatiently, going to stand by the window. He allowed more silence to pass. In all the years of knowing my companion, I found silence was invaluable to him. He needed it as frequently as he needed noise and adventure and music, between them, there were our most quiet moments.  
“It bothered me because of the way our friend, Captain Croker, described his love for Miss Frasier.”  
I looked at him in surprise. It was rare for him ever to speak of the tenderer passions, and when he did so, it was with distaste and withdrawal.  
“What part of his description irked you?” I asked.  
“How selfless it was,” he said simply. “He told us he was content with simply being her friend, so long as she was happy. That is a wonderfully selfless type of love, isn't it, Watson? Quite a rare variety.”  
“Why, yes, I quite agree,” I said, glad to hear him talking of it in such a compassionate manner. “The best type of love, I'd say.”  
Holmes gave a short nod, his eyes still fixed upon the street. I think now that he did not want me to see his expression, but I could imagine his thin lips tightening into a line, then a soft smile, his eyes twinkling.  
“Are you happy, Watson?” he asked finally.  
The question caught me quite by surprise, but then, this was a man who always surprised me. He looked at me once again, and I met his eyes and felt something pass between us, something I cannot name. I felt we knew of some tie between us that was infinite, impenetrable. I think we understood it in that moment more than ever. I knew in those few seconds, when he met my eyes, that I would do anything for this man. I would follow him to the ends of the earth, to my grave if I had to. And I think he knew as much himself.  
“Yes, Holmes, I am happy,” I said, startled at how easily the answer came.  
Holmes smiled weakly.  
“Good. Good.” He put his pipe down, and strode across the room, stopping when he reached my side for a moment. He studied my face with an intense gaze characteristic of himself. “Goodnight, my dear Watson,” was all he said, and disappeared to his room.  
I felt a warmth in my chest I had yet to understand.

 


End file.
